Always by your side
by J.A.Kishu
Summary: John has to choose which one of them dies. The bullet that came to close to hitting Sherlock s heart will never get to hit him. It takes John's life and leaves a grieving Sherlock behind. How can he go on now? How will he be able to fulfill the last wish of a dying person, of his only friend?
1. Bullet

**Always by your side**

 **Chapter 1: Bullet**

It wasn't Sherlock's fault, not this time. They had done everything right. Called Lestrade, informed him about the killer's location and waited very patiently for him and the back up before they entered the building. It was just bad luck and someone had to pay for it. John was glad he could choose who it was.

As they entered the building the team separated to search through the many rooms. Sherlock and John together as always. John was the only one armed and therefore tried to go first but Sherlock like always went first. The rooms only light came from the ceiling. A naked bulb was hanging down and moving a bit, a dirty and broken mirror was on the wall, nothing else. At the end of the room was a doorway leading to the next room. Moving forward silently like a cat, Sherlock was close to the door as John caught a reflection in the mirror. The suspect with the murder weapon aimed at Sherlock.

John knew what would happen. The man would shoot Sherlock directly into his heart and he would be alone again. There was no real decision to be made, it was selfish and maybe cruel to choose but this bullet would never hit his fiend. John moved fast, faster than ever before in his life and stood in front of Sherlock covering him less than a second after the bullet had left the chamber. The impact of it pushed him against a surprised detective who caught him in his arms and they sunk down on the dirty floor together.

John could feel how the massive brain of his friend was working or better trying to work out what happened. Nearly unconscious he wasn't able tell Sherlock to get cover, there was still someone with a gun in the next room.

But Sherlock didn't care about that as he laid John on the ground and tried to keep his blood in the body where it belongs to. Sherlock covered the wound with his hands but more and more blood was coming out. John focused on Sherlock's face and saw tears. They were the first real tears John saw. Strange things appear in your mind when you are dying, he thought.

Sherlock looked desperate and started pleading. "Please John, don't leave me alone. I can't… I can't do this without you, please." More tears came out of the detective eyes and fell down on John mixing them with his blood. John took one of his last deep breathes to do something even more selfish. But instead of words coughing comes out together with more blood. "No. No don't speak, help is on the way. Don't go without me. I don't want to be alone again, stay a bit longer, please."

* * *

Sally Donavan was the first one in the room followed by Lestrade. They had heard the shot. The suspect was caught not a minute later outside but that wasn't important. She hadn't thought it would hit her that hard. It took every movement out of her body and she stopped in shock at the picture that was painted in red in front of her. Lestrade was calling for an ambulance, shouting in his radio they should hurry. But he couldn't go closer to both men on the ground, the one lying bleeding out, the other one over him crying. Both covered in blood and everyone in this room knew: John Watson wouldn't make it.

She could hear Sherlock's pleading and saw the blood running out of John's body. As the man on the ground started to talk, Sherlock and everyone else stopped in making noises.

John's voice wasn't more than a whisper. "Sher… Sherlock, listen to me. It's not your fault. I decided… not your fault." She could see more tears coming out of Sherlock's eyes and his hand starting to shake. "Couldn't let you go. You can still do in… incredible things." Sherlock's head shook like he wanted him to stop but he was listening to every word. "You have to… speak for the dead... and help the living to heal." A cough went through the doctor's body and he had to take a break. It cost him all of his strength to continue, he knows it's his last chance to tell Sherlock the things he wants to say.

"You won't be alone, you can't give… up." John's breathing was becoming more and more of a fight the next one more painful than the last one. "Promise me you will go on; promise me… not to follow… me too soon. Promise me you will go on living." John's eyes started to close and Sherlock shouted John's name over and over again. The last thing the doctor gave Sherlock was a smile and Sally could swear she heard a 'sorry' before his heart stopped and Sherlock broke down on John's chest, weeping. She had to turn away, she couldn't watch this.

* * *

Greg Lestrade was witness to the death of one of his friends and the breakdown of another. He couldn't save John and he couldn't help Sherlock. Lost in thinking about what would happen now he didn't see the paramedics entering the room. Too late to save the one on the ground. All they could do was pronounce the time of death. One of them tried to get Sherlock away from John. Bad idea. Sherlock fought them and tried to keep John Watson's lifeless body close.

Lestrade decided that now was the time to do something. He laid a hand on the paramedic's shoulder; the man understood and took a step back. Lestrade kneeled next to Sherlock; he tried not to touch the blood. He laid one hand on Sherlock's arm to get his attention. "Sherlock. I'm so sorry but you have to let him go. You can't help him anymore." The crying didn't stop but Sherlock's hands stopped holding John's jacket so tightly. Very gently Lestrade moved Sherlock's hands away. At first they resisted but in the end Sherlock let it happen. He lifted his head and stared down at his friend.

Lestrade felt the loss of temperature in Sherlock's hands. He ordered a shock blanket and one of the paramedics laid the orange fabric around Sherlock's shoulder. Both watched the paramedic laid John's body into a body bag preparing him for transport. There was a bit of resistance as they brought John out of the room but nothing else came from Sherlock. He sat there on the dirty floor, he looked small under the blanket, his eyes were fixed on the point John's face had been a minute ago.

Whatever Lestrade tried to do or say brought no reaction from Sherlock's side. As Sally called him he got up and walked over to her. He could read the shock in her face too. "His brother is here." She told him.

Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, came into the room. Lestrade walked over to him. Before Lestrade could ask how he knew what had happened, the man started to talk. "I was informed. I'm here to pick up my brother; he won't be of great use for you right now." He gave Lestrade his card with an address and a number. "If you need something he will be there, please call first." Without waiting for an answer Mycroft walked over to Sherlock, ignoring Lestrade and the rest of the police force.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes looked down at the figure that had once his strong and stubborn little brother. He had no idea how to fix this situation. But first he needed to get him away from this place that would now become Sherlock's personal hell.

Mycroft got down and gentle laid his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Let's go home." Words filled with understanding and love flew over to Sherlock who moved for the first time since John's body had been taken away. "Why?" Empty and lost eyes looked at him and if Mycroft had known that these would be Sherlock's last word for a very long time, he would have tried to get more out of him. Instead he lifted Sherlock on his feet and led him out. They didn't see the worried looks that followed them out.

The black car that had waited outside brought them to Mycroft's house. Sherlock let it all happen. As they went inside he didn't resist as Mycroft lead him into the bathroom helping him to wash off John's blood from his hands, the dirt of the room from his skin and the tears from his face. He helped Sherlock to get dressed again and Sherlock took the pill Mycroft gave him. A sleeping pill. It's started working the second Sherlock lay in bed and he was asleep within seconds as Mycroft put the heavy blanket over him.

He couldn't do more, not at the moment. Mycroft stayed in Sherlock's room watching over his sleeping brother and waiting for the next day. The first day without John Watson at Sherlock's side.


	2. In the darkness

**Chapter 2: In the darkness**

Lestrade waited a whole day before he called Mycroft to ask him if he could talk to Sherlock. Mycroft sounded tired on the phone. He told Lestrade he could try it. As the DI entered the room, Mycroft stayed outside. Sherlock was in his bed, a few pillows behind his back so he could sit up, his handy on his lap. He was looking out the window. At least that was what Lestrade thought at first.

He set on the chair near the window. 'Hollowness'. That was what Lestrade saw. In front of him sat an empty shell of a great man, dead eyes looking at him. He tried his best to cover his shock. "Hey Sherlock." No response, he did not even notice Lestrade was there. "…how are you feeling?" Nothing happened. "Can I do something for you, anything?" Lestrade touched Sherlock's hand, it was ice cold. "Can you please answer me? Shout or scream or just tell me how stupid I am, please Sherlock." No answer. Lestrade tried and tried again. After an hour he gave up and left the room.

Mycroft waited outside, sadness showing on his face. "He has been like that since he woke up yesterday morning. I tried everything. He is lost in his mind. I don't know if he will find his way back."

As Lestrade stood outside the building, he looked up to the Sherlock's window. He would come again and try it even if he had to do it for the rest of his life.

* * *

Mycroft sat on Sherlock's bed, a week has passed since John's death. Mycroft had had to call a doctor who had put an IV into his brother's arm to get some fluids and nutrition into Sherlock's system. "Sherlock, please, you have to get up. It's his funeral today. You have to say 'good bye'. John wouldn't want you to be like this." Sherlock didn't react to whatever Mycroft said.

In the end Mycroft went alone. No one asked where Sherlock was, they knew it. Sherlock Holmes was as good as dead; he had died together with John Watson. As the coffin disappeared into the ground, Mycroft sent a prayer to a god he didn't believe in to save his little brother. The answer was rain that covered everything around him as he walked back to the black car that was waiting for him.

The upcoming weeks were a horror trip for Mycroft. Sherlock's condition didn't change, at least his mental status. His physical one was something else. He had always been thin, too thin for a healthy person but now he was only skin and bones. His face was more like a skull and his eyes hadn't yet got the spark of life back.

Sherlock received many visitors. Mrs. Hudson was a daily companion by his side; Lestrade came as often as he could. Even Mummy and Daddy came but they couldn't watch their son slowly dying. Molly Hooper was there every few days, Mike Stamford came once but none of these visitors could get Sherlock back, out of the place where he was hiding himself from reality.

Mrs. Hudson went home for the day, she had told him to go to bed earlier. She had started to mother hen him too. This was probably her own way of dealing with John's loss. The doorbell rang and a very unexpected guest was standing outside. Harriet Watson, Harry, John's sister. Not sure what the reason for her visit was, he blocked the door in a protective way. Her face didn't show any trace of anger. She tried a smile, it worked a bit. "I have something for Sherlock; DI Lestrade gave me your address. Actually I wanted to give it to him at the funeral but he wasn't there." The last part wasn't condemning. Mycroft let her in but stayed in the door to Sherlock's room, close enough to intervene, but far enough to give them some form of privacy.

* * *

Harry Watson had never met Sherlock in person but she had read John's blog. Every entry had shown more and more sides of Sherlock. Of their friendship, the strong bond between both of them. Sometimes when she would talk about her brother and also mention Sherlock she sounded like she had met him. But the man opposite her was less than a shadow of the great detective.

She set on his bed like Mycroft always did but not all the other visitors who would sit in the chair. The man at the door didn't move. "Hello Sherlock, we never met but I'm John's sister, Harry, and I have something for you. From John. He asked me a long time ago to give it to you if something happened to him." There was no reaction but Harry Watson wouldn't give up that easy.

She took his face into her hands and turned it so that he had to look into her eyes. She fished something out of her pocket. Mycroft thought at first it was a normal neckless but he recognized the familiar looking dog tags every soldier had to wear. Harry hung the chain around Sherlock's neck, lifted one of his hands and closed it around the tags.

"It's for you, so you will always feel him close to you. Whenever you feel lonely hold them like that. John loved you, more than a brother and I know you loved him too." Initially Harry and Mycroft thought that it hadn't changed anything, not even that. But suddenly Sherlock's lifeless eyes filled with tears, they flooded his eyes and streamed down his face. Sherlock lifted his other hand and closed it around the hand with which Harry was holding the tags. Mycroft was then witness to the first words Sherlock spoke in weeks. "I'm sorry." He said, his voice raspy because not used for so long. "I'm sorry, it's my fault. I'm sorry." He crouched himself around the tags and threw himself into the embrace Harry was offering him. One hand still on Sherlock's she rubbed his back with the other. She did the one and only thing able to make Sherlock better. She whispered in his ears 'not your fault' as often as Sherlock needed to hear it. His crying sounded like it would never end. As Sherlock's body went limb, she knew Sherlock had cried himself to sleep. Or lost consciousness because of exhaustion which was the more likely considering Sherlock's current condition.

* * *

Mycroft came to the bed and freed Harry out of Sherlock's boneless body. Careful not to disturb him he laid him back onto his pillows. He made sure Sherlock wouldn't lose the tags during his sleep.

Harry and Mycroft left the room and at the door there was a moment of awkwardness between the two of them, but Mycroft had to show her how grateful he was so he hugged her. "Thank you." Harry didn't answer and after she hugged him back she left without another word. Her mission, the last mission her brother had given her was accomplished. Mycroft closed the door behind her and rested his forehead on the cold wood. The first step was done. Sherlock was back in this world. He would wake up in the morning and enter it without John.


	3. Anger and sorrow

**Chapter 3: Anger and sorrow**

As Sherlock woke up he felt the sun on his skin and knew this wasn't home, everything was wrong. The sun was on the wrong side, the blanket was too heavy and everything smelled different. He couldn't remember where he was. He was holding something small and made out of metal in his hands. He opened his hands and saw the soldier dog tags. Reality hit him as he read the name on it.

John wasn't here anymore. Sherlock knew that a lot of time had passed since the day the bullet had hit his friend but he couldn't remember how much. He remembered Mrs. Hudson's voice, Mycroft's hands caring for him, Lestrade being there too and then Harry, Harry who had given John's dog tags to him.

Sherlock couldn't stay here, he needed to go to John. He lifted the blanket set his feet on the floor and got up. Only for a second, dizziness dragged him down and he fell. One hand still around the tags he stopped his fall with the other hand. It took him more time than he expected to focus his vision again and the first thing he saw was a worried looking Mycroft sitting next to him. "You can't get up like this, let me help you." And very untypical for Mycroft, he lifted Sherlock back onto the bed, before he could do anything. "I want to… , I need to go to…" Sherlock's voice broke every time he wanted to say John's name. He couldn't say it.

Mycroft would show him sympathy if he knew it would help. "You still have an IV connected to your hand." Sherlock looked down at his hand, the one he had used to stop his fall. He hadn't felt the needle. "I will get the doctor to remove it." Sherlock's face must have shown blank horror or something like that because Mycroft held his hand. "Okay I will do it."

The thought of a doctor touching him, a doctor that wasn't John felt like he would betray him. Sherlock watched the untrained hands of Mycroft removing the needle. And for the first time he really looked at a part of his body. Like a skeleton, he thought. He could see every bone in his hand and arm and the contrast to Mycroft's skin color told the story about how unhealthy he looked.

"How long?"

That was the good thing about talking to his brother. They never needed complicated explanations, full sentences or conversations with a beginning and an end. Both of their minds worked faster than normal people's brains. They filled the gaps and replaced the unspoken parts. No need for unnecessary words. "Nearly five weeks." Sherlock looked up and out of the window. Five weeks, it should be autumn by now. He had missed the end of the summer. Then again how could that be important? As Mycroft finished his work Sherlock was on his feet again. "Stop, you need something to eat first and you have to get dressed. After then a car will bring us to the graveyard."

Graveyard, that word hurt, it was one of the words Sherlock was missing before. While he thought about it Mycroft, used grabbed his chance and lead him over to a table. Half way there Sherlock started to get signals from his body again. His legs felt like jelly and without help he would have landed on the floor not a meter from the bed. Finally near the chair he needed a break already and Mycroft went out to get something to eat for him. Sherlock wasn't hungry but to go to the gr… He couldn't say it… He had to eat so Mycroft would let him go.

Sherlock had spent the last five weeks in this room and all he could remember were fragments, pieces of nothing. Mycroft bought a bowl of soup, easy food for Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock took the spoon and he figured out why his body wouldn't tolerate any food.

John had always been the one to make Sherlock eat, he would make him toast in the morning. He was the one who would never forgot to get a takeaway on the way home from a case, he would place a few biscuits next to his tea in the hope Sherlock would picked one or two and eat them, he would bring food from Mrs. Hudson upstairs and reheat it so both of them could eat it. John was the one that had made food a nice thing.

The spoon fell out of Sherlock's lose fingers and into the bowl containing the soup. Some of it spilled on the table. Mycroft looked up worried. "I can't eat that." Sherlock said.

"Alright then go get dressed." Mycroft saw there was no use in forcing him. Sherlock put on his clothes but they hung on him loosely and were at least two sizes too big. He needed to use the last hole in his belt to keep his trousers from falling. The coat covered his thinness a bit. The sunken cheeks and dark rings under his eyes were visible for everyone to see.

In the car Sherlock promised himself not to cry, he had cried enough and he needed to tell John something. The drive took only twenty minutes. It was around noon but Sherlock didn't care about time, the gray autumn sky welcomed him to the graveyard. He stood at the gate; before he went through he turned around. "Go home Mycroft, I don't need your help."

Mycroft was sure his brother was wrong but he did what Sherlock asked and left. Sherlock needed all his strength to walk the path to the gravestone he was looking for. He found the right one and his knees broke down under him. A few leaves covered the stone on the ground and Sherlock starts slowly picking up one leaf after the other to clean it.

While doing this, he started to talk, not that he thought John would hear him but he needed to say it anyway.

"You called me a 'machine' once; I think I proved you wrong. I will call you selfish. You decided my life is worth more than yours, that's rubbish. You decided I be the one to live and you the one to die. You told me not to follow you to soon, what does 'soon' mean? Weeks, months, years. When will I have been in this world long enough without you to be allowed to go? You said I have to help the living to heal, to speak for the dead. How should I do this without you? I can't remember how I did it alone, before I met you. Your part was the healing one; you now expect me to speak also for the one who is no longer able to do this. I can't do both jobs, I won't do it. I don't want to do this alone."

Sherlock had started to cry without wanting to, one promise already broken. "You were supposed to stay by my side. Please come back to me." His hand went to his chest where he could feel the cold metal heating up. "I'm sorry for always getting you into danger and making you do things you didn't want to do and for interrupting your dates."

* * *

Sherlock kneeled by the grave for hours changing between accusing and apologizing. Until his tears were all gone, all words were said and he was still alone in this world with no idea how to live in it.

Suddenly Sherlock felt a weak pull on his coat sleeve and as he looked down he saw to his surprise a black dog. Not really a dog. A puppy that sat with his wiggling tail next to him. Sherlock looked around; no one was around and the dog wasn't wearing a collar.

He felt his privacy disturbed but pushing the dog away didn't work. The dog just came back, his fur was wet and in this moment he realized he was also wet. It was raining and already late in the afternoon, the cold finally crept into his body.

Sherlock got up with a bit of difficulty, the heavy coat not making it any easier. He walked down the hill and let his feet bring him away from this place. The sound of falling rain and the small paws that tapped on the wet ground followed him on his way.

From time to time Sherlock turned around and tried to get rid of the dog, nothing worked. The small paws followed him. Deep in his thoughts he wasn't aware of his surroundings. Barking and the pulling on his coat brought him back, out of his mind palace. In anger he turned around; the dog was holding him back. Sherlock wanted to ignore the dog and turned around again facing a red traffic light. He had been so deep in his thoughts he lost track of reality. His stalker dog had saved him.

Sherlock continued his walk and wasn't even sure where he was heading, his feet decided the direction, he was busy listening to his little follower. As the dog got slower, Sherlock slowed down too. His destination was directly in front of him.

Baker Street 221, their home. Now it felt like a cold place. What if someone removed J… his stuff, what if it had a layer of dust? He didn't know what was better; he didn't want to see it. But the choice wasn't his anymore, the small dog jumped up the stairs, shook his whole body to lose a bit of the cold water and waited for Sherlock to open the door.

He hesitated just a moment and followed the dog through the door. Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat. "Oh my boy, there you are. I was worried. Mycroft called and oh your clothes are soaked with water. Why didn't you call a cab?" She came to him, pulled his head down to look him into his eyes. "Good to have you back. Now upstairs young man, take a hot shower and change into something more comfortable."

Sherlock couldn't talk but something moved between his legs that wanted attention and barked once to get just that. Mrs. Hudson looked down at the fury creature and Sherlock's first reaction was to pick it up and hold him protectively in his arms. The feeling of losing it was already unbearable.

Mrs. Hudson must have sensed Sherlock's fear. "Oh that pure thing is freezing. Up with you two." Sherlock did what she told him to do. He was lost and he was unable to take his own decisions. Upstairs in their flat, he ignored kitchen and living room. The places where both of them had spent most of their time.

Still holding the dog he grabbed a pajama out of his room and disappeared in the bathroom. He placed the dog in the tub and peeled himself out of his wet clothes. He didn't feel the cold anymore and he ignored his reflection in the mirror.

Sherlock turned on the hot water and moved the shower head close to the dog. He hadn't done this in decades. He remembered Redbeard had never liked water. His new friend didn't mind. After testing the temperature to test if it was safe, Sherlock wasn't sure which, the dog jumped happily under the water.

Sherlock got in next standing under the water and letting his body warm-up, he had his eyes closed. When he started feeling his fingers and toes again his opened his eyes and between his legs was the small dog. His eyes moved up, he blinked the water drops out and saw the shampoo bottles. John's and his. He sat down in the tub not trusting his legs to hold him any longer. He pulled his knees up and held them with his arms. He waited for the pain to disappear.

The warmed-up wet and fury creature tried to climb up to him. And Sherlock picked him up and held it close. Both stayed like this a long time until one of them was ready to get up.

Sherlock stopped the water and the dog did most of the drying himself, Sherlock only did the last bit with a towel before he dried himself and got dressed. The dog used this time to slip out of the bathroom and ran off to the living room.

After a moment Sherlock followed him. The dog just sat next to the sofa and waited for him. He was so tired he sat down and out of habit he laid down. He fell asleep within seconds, exhausted from the day. Sherlock was already asleep when the dog jumped onto the sofa and laid himself between his arms and chest, keeping Sherlock's heart warm.

* * *

When Mrs. Hudson came upstairs with a hot cup of tea a few minutes later, she found both of them sleeping like that. She placed the tray with the tea down on the table, fetched a blanket and covered them. Quietly she went downstairs again so as not to disturb the much needed sleep of her boy.

She picked up her phone and called Mycroft's number. She was used to this by now. Every morning and every night before she went to bed, she had asked him about Sherlock's condition.

Mycroft answered the phone after the second sound. "He came home and is sleeping now." She could hear his relieved sigh. "Thank you, again. I will come tomorrow." Mycroft sounded like he had left out a question. "He is alright, not good, but alright. He come back and this is more then we hoped. Oh and he brought a dog home." "A dog?" Mycroft sounded surprised." I will let him keep it. He looked like he couldn't take another loss." He ended the call with the promise to look into the dog later.

Mrs. Hudson was alone in her kitchen. One of her boys was home again. The other one would never come back she felt the need to cry but she didn't. At least Sherlock was home and she would make him better. She would start by feeding him up tomorrow. The boy had lost too much weight.


	4. A name and dusty case files

**Chapter 4: A name and dusty case files**

Mycroft arrived the next morning, not too early hoping his brother would sleep for a while. He had been worried the whole day yesterday until Mrs. Hudson had called and freed him out of his misery.

He knocked on the front door to Baker Street 221 and Ms. Hudson opened. "I think he is still sleeping; haven't hear a sound till now." He thanked her again and went upstairs hesitating a second at the door before entering. Sherlock was indeed still sleeping and looked like a lost child with a very hairy dark ball of fur in his arms.

The noise must have wakened Sherlock because he started to move under the blanket and opened his eyes. Mycroft saw his confusion like when he had woken up the morning before. "Good morning, brother." Sherlock set up and the dog jumped down. He ignored his brother like always but his eyes followed the dog's every move. "Where did you find that dog and why did you bring it with you?" Sherlock still wrapped up in the blanket couldn't look him in the eyes. "Didn't bring it, he followed me from… He followed me." Mycroft didn't comment the break in Sherlock's explanation. "Will you keep him?" He hoped for a yes.

Sherlock looked up, surprised. "Ask him." Mycroft eyed first his brother and then looked down to the dog that came closer to him. Mycroft held a hand out so the dog could get used to him. It sniffed at his hand but as Mycroft tried to touch it he run back to Sherlock and hopped onto the sofa. The dog was small and he nearly didn't make it.

The dog lay down on Sherlock's lap watching his surroundings. "You can leave now. You checked on me. I guess you have better things to do." Mycroft left without another word. Sherlock needed time, more time and maybe someday he would be able to live again. But there was nothing Mycroft could do in this situation and the last thing he wanted to do was to upset him even more.

* * *

Sherlock listened to his brother's steps on the stairs and laid down again staring at the two chairs across from the room next to the fireplace until Mrs. Hudson came up to bring him breakfast. Just toast with butter and tea and a bowl of milk for the dog.

She looked down at him, placed the food in front of both and waited. "You don't have to eat everything but at least try a bit." She put the milk on the floor. "And you have to get proper food for you little friend." The dog jumped down from the sofa and sat in front of the milk and waited too. Like Sherlock he sat there and looked at the food.

He had to try it. To make her happy, just a bite. He lifted one of the slices and took a small bite; at the same time the dog started to eat. "Oh, gorgeous. He waited until you started to eat. Good dog." She rubbed his back. "You need to give him a name." Sherlock nodded too busy keeping the small piece of bread inside while taking another. He only wanted to hide under the blanket, sleep and never again leave this room.

Mrs. Hudson babbled something about Mrs. Turner next door and that she would come back at lunch time. Reminding Sherlock this would not be the last time he had to eat.

Eating maybe half of a slice he drank the tea. On the way back to his staring at the chairs the dog started to scratch at the door. Mrs. Hudson had left and he knew she would get angry about any scratches on her door. Sherlock got up and opened the door. "You want to leave?" The dog stayed and waited not moving. "Alright I'll get dressed and we can go for a walk. You can't do your business in here."

Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom and came out fully dressed even with his coat and scarf. Mrs. Hudson must have dried it during the night.

The first step out was hard. Sherlock thought about all the times he hadn't gone out of this door alone. A friendly barking from the pavement let him take one step after another. He didn't know why but he followed the dog to a park close to Baker Street and ended in front of a pet shop with a sign on the door that said 'pets have to stay out'.

Sherlock stopped; looking down the street first to his left and then to his right. He lifted the dog up and hid it under his coat in a pocket. The dog didn't fight him. "You have to be quiet if you want food." And then Sherlock stepped inside the shop and took a basket. He never went shopping and now he was in a shop with a dozen different brands of dog food and he had no idea how to choose the right one. No one was in sight so he let the dog have a look.

If Sherlock had been in his right mind he would have known the whole action was just stupid or insane but he wasn't and asking a dog what kind of food he liked was the best idea his with grief-clouded mind could come up with.

No one was in sight so he let the dog have a look. Sherlock opened his coat and showed the dog the different tins and every time the dog made a movement he put the tin in the basket. As he passed by a shelf with collars he chose a blue one. Not sure why. Outside he took a deep breath not even realizing he had held it. The dog was out of his coat again and lead the way back home as if he had walked that path a thousand times before.

* * *

The next morning Lestrade got a message from Mycroft informing him Sherlock was back at Baker Street. He was glad to hear it. To see his friend in that lifeless state had been horrible. But what next? He wouldn't ask Sherlock to help him anytime soon. Not only had the detective's physical condition worried him. He would wait until Sherlock asked for it.

The case files on his desk had already piled up, not close to anything he had had before his time with Sherlock. He had never had so many unsolved crimes. It wasn't only Sherlock's help missing. He himself wasn't at his best and since John's death he hadn't been able to feel the same thrill and motivation as before.

Thinking back to Sherlock, he would probably get bored very soon, so despite the fact that he was busy Lestrade went downstairs to the storage room for case files on unsolved crimes. He looked for a few less brutal ones to bring to Sherlock the next day.

Loaded with over forty files he went upstairs to number 221B. It was around ten in the morning but he found Sherlock still sleeping on the sofa. The man that never slept, was sleeping. Not a good sign.

Still holding the files he reached out with one hand to wake Sherlock. He never got the chance to touch him. Suddenly a black thing jumped at him, it came out of the mix of blankets, limbs and clothes. The thing bit him in his hand. Taken by surprise he fell down on his backside, the case files sliding over the whole living room floor. Not really feeling pain he looked down at his hand and found a small puppy tying to bite off his hand.

Sherlock woke up at the noise but just stared at them. "Do something about that Sherlock." Lestrade shouted. "He is okay." Was all that Sherlock said and the dog let go and walked back to his owner proudly holding his head up and sitting protectively next to him.

"Where did you find that small guardian of yours?" Lestrade asked still sitting on the floor. "He is not my guardian." Sherlock replied emotionlessly. Lestrade looked surprised. "He certainly behaves like that. Anyway… I brought you a few cold cases if you want-." Lestrade was interrupted by Sherlock. "Don't want them, take them away." Sherlock nearly shouted pulling his knees to his chest and holding them with his arms, building a sort of wall between the files, Lestrade and himself.

Only a bit shocked Lestrade went down on his knees to pick up the files. That was one of the possible reactions he had reckoned with, not the worst but still to be expected. Cases meant 'working with John'. "Sorry, thought you would get bored." Sharp teeth nearly bit at his fingers that were reaching out for the files. "Hm, Sherlock. I think your small friend has a problem with me." He tried to reach for another file but the dog jumped at his hand. Sherlock turned to him. "Let him take them away." A short command but for the first time the dog didn't listen to Sherlock. After a few more tries to collect the files, Sherlock said. "Leave them on the floor."

Lestrade tried to start a conversation but Sherlock wasn't in the mood to talk or look at him. As he left, he asked Mrs. Hudson not to pick up the files. He had a feeling that Sherlock would look at them, sometime later. Maybe much later but no one would miss the files until then.

* * *

Sherlock came back from his walk with the dog. He though he had made it too easy for that small thing, letting him take all the decisions; but then why shouldn't he? Not that Sherlock would feel up to taking any.

When he walked through the door Mrs. Hudson invited him into her kitchen for dinner. He wasn't hungry but there was no way out of the situation. He ended with a soup on the table and slowly started to eat. Typical for Mrs. Hudson she had already a bit of dog food in her storage and both humans watched as the dog first started to eat when Sherlock had eaten his fist spoon full of soup.

* * *

One afternoon, Sherlock was on the sofa when the dog started to play with the DVDs under the TV, John's DVDs. Sherlock had to get up to stop him. Sitting on the floor and sorting the mess he noticed the dog still holding one of the DVDs; it was the last movie he and John had watched. Okay it was more like John had watched and Sherlock made comments about it while running an experiment in the kitchen. It was a movie about pirates, Sherlock couldn't remember how it had ended; he must have deleted it. John had found out about his pirate phase as child and let him watch it. The pirates name was Jack he thought remembering.

The still unnamed dog sat there wiggling his tail. He had grown quite a bit in the last few days and Mycroft had told him he would become a very big dog. The black fur reminded him a bit about the pirate's hair. "How about Jack, as a name for you?" A happy bark came back, the DVD fell to the floor and Jack jumped onto Sherlock's lap. Sherlock interpreted this as a 'yes' and finished tidying up.

* * *

Over a month had passed since he had come back to Baker Street and nearly nothing had changed. He only ate the food Mrs. Hudson gave him, only got up and outside when Jack wanted to. Otherwise he did nothing more than lie on the sofa.

One of those lazy days Jack, who had already grown double his initial size, laid one of the case files on the table. Sherlock looked at it and turned in the opposite direction. "Won't do this." And after an encouraging bark Sherlock got up, took his coat and out of the door he was. This time Jack followed Sherlock. After a while he let him walk beside him.

Thanks to their many walks Sherlock's muscles were better and nearly back to his old form. He was still thin but no longer dead looking, all because of Mrs. Hudson's daily mission to feed him up. And then they were standing at the gate to the graveyard. It hadn't been Sherlock's intention to come back to this place.

A sign on the gate told him that dogs weren't allowed inside. Sherlock walked the first few steps inside and turned around. This was the first time he and Jack would be separated by more than a few meters. He hesitated, went back and laid a hand on his companion. "Will you still be hear when I'm back?" He didn't wait for an answer. He wished he had a leash to bind Jack to that gate but that didn't feel right.

This was his second visit to this grave. He didn't feel any better than the first time. Sherlock sat down and leaned against the headstone looking up into a cloudy sky.

"I have someone who is living with me now. He found me; I called him Jack after the pirate from that stupid movie you let me watch. Sometimes he is very intelligent, for a dog. Yes you heard right. A dog. And Mrs. Hudson lets me keep him. I guess she did it out of pity but that's not really important. I think she likes him too. He always stays by my side and I'm sure he will be a very good protector once he grows big enough to actually be a threat. I'm so used to him being close that the few meters that separate us right now feel like infinity. I'm afraid of finding him gone when I go back to the gate. I got angry at him for no reason. He just gave me one of the case files Lestrade brought to me. But I don't want to do it without you, not alone." Sherlock stared into the sky and a few tears started falling down, he waited in silence.

The sky became darker and darker. With no answers coming from the stone there was not much left to talk and staying here wasn't and option either. But going back would mean being alone. If he thought about it though, he wasn't really that alone. Many people were trying their best to make him feel better, to give him a sense of home and love and all the other things he had lost with John. And Jack, he was always at his side, when they slept, Jack would lie near his chest and Sherlock could feel the tags being pressed against him with every breath he took, feeling the warm metal near his heart. This was probably the reason he had not had a single nightmare.

"Excuse me, Sir." Sherlock nearly jumped up, surprised by the appearance of the graveyard's security guard. He had lost time again. Collecting himself Sherlock answered. "Yes?" The guard held his torch to the ground so as not to shine it into Sherlock's eyes. "I'm sorry but you have to leave for today; I have to lock the gates." Sherlock got up and walked down the hill. "Is the black dog at the south gate yours?" Surprised Sherlock turned around. Jack was still there? He nodded. "I think someone stole your leash." Sherlock was already half way there and didn't get what the guard said.

Jack was still at the gate, same position, he hadn't moved at all. Sherlock smiled. "Let's go home, maybe we can have a look at the case you chose."


	5. First Steps and failure

**Chapter 5: First Steps and failure**

Sherlock had given up making his own decisions on the day he had gone to the graveyard. He would have stayed there forever, sitting on the cold ground and letting the rain fall on him. He didn't choose to get up and walk away. It was Jack who made him go. Everything he had done since that day were other people's choices. When he went out it was Jack's; when he ate something it was Mrs. Hudson who had brought it to him; even visitors like Lestrade or Mycroft come without asking. So it was no wonder that to start investigating a cold case wasn't his decision either.

As Sherlock and Jack came back from the graveyard, the case file Jack had chosen was still on the coffee table. Sherlock hesitated just a second before he sat down on the sofa and opened the folder. Jack was sitting beside him.

The case was a simple one, no blood, death or anything that would remind Sherlock of the last crime scene. Someone had stolen a very expensive necklace out of a bank's security container. An insider job apparently. The file contained all witness reports, employees' alibis, a profile of the owner, everything Sherlock needed to reconstruct the crime and follow it back to the thief. In this case a couple working hand in hand.

Sherlock took his phone form the table and sent Lestrade the solution. The case file fell on the floor as he got up and walked down into his bedroom, tired, although it wasn't even close to midnight. He had started sleeping there since Jack had grown faster than expected and he couldn't sleep without his dog anymore. The high feeling he got from solving a case wasn't there anymore or not so strong as before anyway. It was more like a lost star on a black night sky. It didn't hurt him more thank he already was but it didn't make him feel much better either.

* * *

Lestrade was still in his office working on the mountain of paperwork he had to do; Sally was reading him the lab report for an open case when the massage came. First he wanted to ignore it to listen to the results but a feeling let him look down on his phone to see who the sender was. When he saw Sherlock's name he lifted his hand to stop her, and opened it with the other. It was just a case number, a name and a sentence on how it had happened but it was the first case Sherlock solved since John's death.

Lestrade's eyes were filled with tears and a smile grew on his face, Sally was confused about the mixed message from her boss' face. "What's happening?" She asked carefully. He looked up still smiling and crying. "He… Sherlock, he solved a case for us." Sally was confused but also felt something like relieve in her. The last time she had seen Sherlock was burned into her mind. The crying mess covered with the blood of his friend. "What case?"

So Lestrade told her about the files he had brought Sherlock weeks ago and that he hadn't looked at them the whole time. He also decided he wouldn't ask his consultant what had changed or even mention to him how happy he was about it. This was his first real step towards healing.

* * *

In the following weeks Sherlock's life didn't change much. He ate Mrs. Hudson's food, went for walks with Jack, ignored his brother and Lestrade visits and spent a lot of time on the sofa staring at John's chair. The only thing that had changed was the pile of case files. Jack would walk over to them, move them around and choose what would then be Sherlock's next case. It appeared Jack always knew exactly what case he was looking for.

It started with really easy ones: Sherlock had only to read the files and maybe a bit of online research was required, but nothing more. No need to leave the flat. After solving whatever case, Lestrade would get his answer in a short and very impersonal message and the files landed on the pile next to the sofa where the detective could retrieve at his next visit.

The next level were cases where Sherlock had to leave his comfort zone. He had to talk to witnesses himself or go to crime scenes for a better look at the location. Sherlock had felt heavy and in pain the first time he did an investigation outside without John but Jack was with him and after a while he was able to talk to a witness without stopping his questions and looking around. At some point he could also enter a former crime scene without panicking.

* * *

The spring came and Sherlock woke up one morning questioning his life and the lack of decisions he was taking. He stood up and walked to the living room, closely followed by Jack who was sleeping in Sherlock's bed as always. Sherlock sat down on the floor; there weren't many cases left but Jack hadn't given him one in two weeks. His hand reached out for one of the folders and found Jack sitting on the file. "Move." Jack didn't move. He reached for another one and Jack got in the way again. It was the same game he had played with Lestrade when he had brought the cases the first time.

Sherlock sat back and watched his friend for a while without doing anything. "Why?" And before Jack could do anything Sherlock got angry, not with his guardian but with himself. "Why am I even talking to a dog, you can't answer me. Now move. I want the file you are sitting on." With these words he pushed Jack, which wasn't that easy. The dog was already big and reached over Sherlock's knees when he was standing but Sherlock got the file, stood up and opened it.

His eyes met with the picture of a murder weapon, a gun. There was nothing special about it. It was just a gun, found at the scene of a domestic crime. The words in front of Sherlock began to get blurred, his took short shallow breaths, signs of hyperventilation started to appear and all he could see was the gun…

…aiming at him.

…John stepping between him and the bullet.

…John falling back and sinking to the floor.

…John bleeding out.

…John dying in his arms.

…John dead.

Sherlock's hand started to shake so violently that the folder fell to the ground but his eyes were still seeing the gun that had destroyed his life. A sharp pain ripped through his body and nausea came to his stomach. He ran to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. Tears filled his eyes and, after he was finished, he walked into his bedroom, closed the door, hid under the blanket and cried himself to sleep. A sleep filled with guns, bullets, blood and more tears.

* * *

Lestrade came the next day and a very upset landlady opened the door to him. He knew something must have happened. "What's going on? Is Sherlock alright?" She couldn't answer but lead him upstairs. Sherlock wasn't in his usual place on the sofa, a look around the corner revealed a closed bedroom door and a watchdog in his position. "He wouldn't let me to him." Mrs. Hudson whispered in his ears.

When Lestrade approached the door, Jack started to growl and Lestrade stopped. He didn't want to learn how strong the dog had become in the last months. "Sherlock, everything alright in there?" No answer. Lestrade didn't hesitate, took his phone out of his pocket and called Mycroft. In less than twenty minutes the man was at Baker Street.

He was not able to get closer to the door, like Lestrade. "Sherlock, please open the door. What happened? Don't do this again I… I can't watch this again, please." The fear in his voice was hearable for everyone. Jack's head moved a bit to the door. "Leave me alone, go away." Everyone sighed in relief, at least he had answered. Jack got up from his position, looked at them with a look that said 'Don't go in or I will bite you' and disappeared into the room after opening it with one of his paws. Lestrade and Mycroft walked back into the living room, preparing for a long waiting time. Mrs. Hudson made them a tea and left them alone.

Lestrade spotted one of the case files lying open on the floor; a few sheets of papers had fallen out. He picked it up and put it back into the folder not seeing anything special about that case. Sherlock had just solved a case with three victims. The murderer had been a fanatic artist who liked to cut his art into his victims' skin. This was a case that had nothing special, the only problem being that they had no evidence against the husband. Putting the file back on the table he sat down again and waited with Mycroft, waited for Sherlock to come out. It was some kind of wonder that Sherlock was able to things… Lestrade couldn't find a better word but 'breathe'. Without John there were bound to be one or two setbacks somewhere on the way.

* * *

Sherlock listened to the sound of steps moving away from the bedroom door. He knew Lestrade and Mycroft wouldn't leave until he came out but he didn't feel like doing that and since Jack had come to warm up his frozen heart, he felt much better. He caught Jack in a tight hug and fell asleep again. Exhausted from crying and having panic attacks.

When he woke up the next time it was early morning. Soon the sun would rise and another day would come. Another day without John. Sherlock patted Jack's back with one hand enjoying the soft fur under his fingers. 'Not alone. Not alone. Not alone.' He repeated these two words again and again. Trying to convince his mind that he wasn't alone even when he felt lonely. "I miss him." He whispered into his friend's ears.

Jack moved under his hands, looked into his eyes, licked his cheeks, jumped off the bed and left the room. Sherlock wasn't afraid or something like that. Jack made sure he knew that he would come back soon.

* * *

Mycroft heard the paws on the wooden floor and watched the dog enter the living room. Since the dog had come to Baker Street he was surprised of the deep bond he and his brother had shared from the first moment they had met.

The dog walked over to the case files on the floor, pushing them around as if looking for something special. Woken by the rustling of the papers Lestrade, who was sleeping in Sherlock's chair, jumped up in surprise. He saw what the dog was doing but was stopped by Mycroft's raised hand as he was about to stop the dog. Mycroft could see that this was not the first time the dog had walked over the folders and hardly the first time he had picked one as he did now. With the one case between his teeth the dog returned to Sherlock's bedroom.

* * *

Still crouched under the blanket Sherlock felt Jack's return. Creeping out and taking a deep breath of fresh air he saw a new file lying on his bed, Jack next to it waiting patiently for him to decide, to choose by himself. He could take the file and solve it or go back under the blanket, Jack wouldn't leave him. He would wait for him, always.

After what felt like hours but were in reality only a few seconds, Sherlock lifted himself up and started to read in the file while one of his hands wandered to Jack to pat him again. He wasn't fine or okay; he was still hurting but there wasn't only the horror of his last moments with John. John had asked him to do something. He had trusted him to be strong enough to do this and he smiled for him. Sherlock wouldn't disappoint him. He would try. That is all he had to do: try. And he wasn't alone.

Sherlock had to start to take his own decisions, maybe not every time but by beginning with the decision to take the case was a good place to start.

* * *

Lestrade's phone made a noise, a new massage. A new massage from Sherlock. He opened it and saw another solved case. He gave Mycroft the phone and a small smile grew on the man's face. They both got up and left the flat. Sherlock wasn't in danger; he was only in his room. Not worse than the day before.

When he visited Sherlock three days later he found most of the case files on the table, only a few were left on the ground. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea in his hands. "Take them all with you, I won't solve the ones on the ground; you can bring new ones if you want." Sherlock didn't look him in the eyes; they were fixed on his tea. "Mrs. Hudson brought tea; if you want you can drink a cup." Lestrade nodded, better than to be ignored.

He left with the files wondering what was wrong with them, he couldn't find a pattern but it didn't matter. Sherlock wanted to solve cases so he would get other ones. Another night spent searching for interesting cold cases for Sherlock was the least he could do.


	6. Not alone

**Chapter 6: Not alone**

"We need him." Sally's voice was a bit desperate. "You know it. It's the fifth body we found so far." Lestrade looked between the body of a young woman and his officer. Of course she was right and both knew it but he couldn't bring himself to ask Sherlock. It had been ten months since John had died. Yes, he had made progress and started solving cases but only cold ones on paper and not any with an actually body.

"I know Sally but it's too early." She didn't answer to that. It was a sign that she had asked for him. He wouldn't call him for that. He turned his attention back to the crime scene ignoring the small voice in his head that told him to get Sherlock and hoped for a miracle.

When they found the next body only six days later he sighed in defeat: he needed to ask him. Picking up his phone he waited for the connection. No one answered. Lestrade put Sally in charge of the crime scene while he was gone.

Before he left he turned to his team getting their full attention. "I will go and ask Sherlock to come. You all know what happened the last time. There will be no name calling, no teasing, and no asking how he is doing. No one will talk about John, best thing you could do is to be quiet, give him his room, answer his questions when he asks… oh and don't say anything about the dog." He left, they would do what he asked, most of these men and women had been witness to John's death and Sherlock's breakdown. They all missed him in some way.

At the door to number 221B he hesitated for another minute, well aware that Sherlock and Jack already knew he was there. Knocking and opening the door he entered the flat, preparing himself for a conversation he was not sure he wanted to have at all.

* * *

Sherlock sat on the sofa holding a cup of tea in his hand that he had made for himself. He had started doing that a few days before. The tea tasted wrong in his opinion, not like the tea that John used to make for him. There was something missing, something important but Sherlock hadn't found out what ingredient was missing.

Jack's head was resting in his lap with one hand patting his ears. Before Sherlock could hear the stairs, the dog had already sensed the visitor, Lestrade, Sherlock figured after the noise of the first step had traveled upstairs. But why was he waiting and not knocking or entering. Something was wrong, new, this hadn't happened the last months.

When the detective finally decided to come inside, Sherlock could see the question written all over his face. And he panicked, not visible to the outside world but deep inside him. A body, a fresh body on an active crime scene was waiting for him.

"Hey Sherlock. We… I need your help." Lestrade couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock could see how ashamed he was that he had to ask him for help at all.

"Tell me about it and what the difference is to the last one." Sherlock looked down at Jack's head and could not only feel but also hear and see how his hands started to shake slightly. He put the tea cup back on the table and hid both of his hands in Jack's soft fur.

Lestrade must have seen it but he ignored the obviously shaking hands and started with the facts. "The sixth victim was found one hour ago in a storage building by a teenager who was looking for a good place to paint. Same MO except it looks like the killer was interrupted this time. We have a serial killer in London that likes to present his victim, all women between twenty and twenty-five. He always leaves a signature behind-"

"What kind of signature?" Sherlock interrupted without looking up. He had also wanted to ask about the MO but wasn't fast enough. Later at the crime scene, if he decided to go.

"It's… it's a heart. Painted with the victim's blood around the body and this time he didn't finish it. You don't have to come if you don't feel up to it." Lestrade said and waited patiently. Sherlock struggled with himself. Should he go? Would the police be like always, incompetent and… mean. How could he stand it alone?

"Can I bring Jack?" Sherlock looked up. Without him he would go nowhere. No crime scene; no nothing. But even with him he wasn't sure he could really get back into the game. Back without John by his side. Yes, he had solved cases without him but back into active work? Would he be able not to panic? Would he start crying? Or just run away?

"You can bring him but he has to stay at the entrance. We can't let him contaminate the scene, okay?" Lestrade watched Sherlock closely and he knew that was the feeling he woke in people when he read them. "Will you come with me?"

"Send me the address." Sherlock looked back down at Jack. The dog hadn't moved since the conversation had started. He didn't interrupt or suggest anything to Sherlock. It was his decision if to go or not.

"Alright." Without another word he left. Closing the door softly and jumping down the stairs to go back to his murder.

Sherlock didn't move, his phone on the table made a short sound telling him Lestrade had sent him the address. What now? Go? Or tell Lestrade he had changed his mind? Minutes past without him moving; Jack wouldn't help him, not this time. The dog had started to push Sherlock back into life for example by making him prepare his own tea without waiting for Mrs. Hudson to do it. But there was a huge difference between making his own tea and working again for the police on cases (real ones, not cold cases) again. Subconsciously he laid his hand on the dog tags under his shirt. Feeling the metal on his skin, he heard John's voice and saw his last smile.

"I will try." He said out loud for Jack. For John. And maybe a bit for himself. Jack jumped up ready for action waiting with a shaking tail at the door. Sherlock took his coat and scarf and they went down the stairs together.

The taxi ride was short; no traffic at this time of day and the crime scene wasn't far away. Lestrade was waiting for him by the yellow tape that kept the civilians out of the way. Sherlock was close behind the detective with Jack by his side and a hand on the dog tags around his neck. He took a deep breath before he entered the crime scene, one hand on Jack's head to tell him to wait. The dog sat down obeying but watching Sherlock and his every movement with alert eyes.

Sherlock walked the scene like he always had done but he didn't look at the body, not yet. He absorbed every bit of information he could find on the suspect, the crime itself but not the victim. He couldn't look at her then because, even without looking, he knew what kind of weapon had killed her. This was a bad idea, he couldn't solve a case without looking at the victim. It was one of the things that told you the most about a crime and a suspect.

'Stupid brain, concentrate, you have to solve a crime. Concentrate.' Sherlock repeated the words over and over again. A thing he had started doing to focus on the things he needed to focus on. But it didn't always work. Like for example now. His brain should or better used to be able to put the signs in front of his eyes together to form a small picture which would then become a big one and lead him to the destination, in this case the serial killer. He saw them, right in front of him.

A small break of concentration; he look over to Jack, he was sitting where Sherlock had told him to stay, the picture of good behavior. Back to the clues, they must tell him something. Ignoring his slightly shaking hands he kneeled down and took a better look at the half painted heart. The blood had dried; turning around a bit he saw a small puddle of water close to the blood. The light from one of the windows showed a reflection from the ceiling. "Oh…"

Realizing that the suspect was still in the building and close to him, just over him, hit Sherlock hard, he couldn't react in time as he was frozen again. There was no time. The suspect jumped down two meters on Sherlock and aimed the gun, the murder weapon, directly into Sherlock's face.

The world went black for him. The crime scene, the man with the gun who was about to kill him, the body behind him and everything else disappeared. Sherlock couldn't breathe, couldn't see or hear or feel anything. The world was gone and maybe now everything would 'soon' be over and he could go back to John.

* * *

Sally watched as Sherlock entered the crime scene; saw him giving a small sign to the dog to stay. Sherlock didn't look good. Not that the man had ever looked really healthy before but this wasn't the man with the manic power.

Lestrade walked over to her, letting Sherlock 'walk the crime scene' like she always called it. The man was unsteady, not certain anymore as to how to move. He didn't look at the body which had always been the first thing he did. He looked over to his dog with fear in his eyes before turning back and looking a bit better. Sherlock closed his eyes as if to stop something in his head and he didn't talk to any of them; he didn't deduce anything or at least tell them about it. He was mute. Looking around more often, hitting the same spot, closing his eyes again and checking on his dog. This wasn't right. This man was not Sherlock Holmes. Not her 'freak', like she used to call him.

"He doesn't look too good. Maybe we shouldn't have asked him to come." She turned to Lestrade to whisper in his ears. Her voice was filled with concern and guilt.

"Compared to how he looked after he woke up he is better than before. You can't even imagine it. He looked like a skeleton and his eyes were dead, without any life left in them. He isn't okay but he is working on it with every help he will accept." Lestrade's eyes were the whole time on the jumpy detective like Sally's ones.

"He can't even look at the body, you call that better?" Sally was sure that the human mess that kneeled down to look at the painted heart was far from okay or better. But she had asked for him at the last scene and now he was here trying to solve their case.

Suddenly something changed in Sherlock's body language. She saw him get up and freeze in his movements. A shadow came down from the ceiling and before they could move, the man that had jumped down was aiming a gun directly in Sherlock's face. But unlike the 'old' Sherlock who jumped between to gang groups, all armed and dangerous, to talk to them because he wanted to know why they were fighting and made comments about their stupidity, the 'new' Sherlock was in shock not able to help himself, his knees shaking and about to give up any second.

Before she or Lestrade could make a move they heard the killer scream in pain. The dog, Sherlock's dog, had jumped at the man and was biting him in the arm holding the gun. Blood dripped and fell to the ground together with the gun. The man tried to fight the dog away but he had no chance. Sally and Lestrade moved. Lestrade to the suspect, Sally close behind him but towards Sherlock.

Sherlock had sunk to the ground not seeing anything, his eyes were empty. She laid a hand on his shoulder but he didn't react to it. Sally looked over to Lestrade who put cuffs on the wrists of their suspect or better was trying. One arm was still locked between the sharp teeth of Sherlock's dog.

"Jack, stop that, I have him, go over to Sherlock." Lestrade shouted at the dog, more worried than angry. First Sally thought, how stupid it was to talk to a dog as if he would understand, but the dog , Jack, let go of the arm and walked over to Sherlock, whose face had become wet from the tears falling out of the not seeing eyes. Looking at her he pushed her away with a threatening growl. She got up slowly and placed herself next to Lestrade: the killer was in cuffs now and one of their colleges was bringing him out.

Jack slowly sat opposite Sherlock and placed his front paws on Sherlock's lap. With his tongue he licked all tears away until no more were coming. With his wet nose he nudged the center of Sherlock's chest. The quiet of the room was filled with the sound of a metal chain. His fist movement was blinking. Blinking and focusing at Jack, he lifted his arms and closed his friend in a tight hug; he buried his face in the soft black fur. Sobbing quietly.

Sally could feel how Lestrade next to her wanted to go over to Sherlock and help him but with her hand on his shoulder she stopped him. There was no way any of them could make it better.

"I guess we should get used to having a dog at our crime scenes." It was not really what she had wanted so say but Lestrade understood. And he also suddenly understood something else and his eyes widened in shock. "Now I know why he didn't solve all the cases I brought him. The crimes were all related to firearms."

"What now?" There were looking over to their consulting detective who was still on the ground hugging his dog. "I will bring him home and never ask him to help us with a case where there is even a slight chance of meeting with a gun. That is until he asks for it." With these last words he walked over to Sherlock leading him out. Sally saw Sherlock's hand, one around the soldier tags, apparently John's, and the other one on Jack's head receiving strength through both touches.

* * *

There was something missing without the army doctor but Sherlock tried with every breath he took to go further, taking step after step always with the words of his best friend in mind. There would be bad days and days with failures. But there would also be days were the pain in Sherlock's chest would become bearable. On those days he would be healed and help others do the same.

He was not alone.


End file.
